The Other Side of Reality

Part 1

Your light soled shoes barely making a sound on the tiled floor, you made your way to the library. People glanced at you as you went, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to ignore the whispering voices inside your head. Voices telling you these people hated you, that they wanted you dead. Sometimes the medication helped silence these voices, but you hated how it made you feel.

This was your fifth year in this Asylum. You knew all the attendants by name, along with the majority of the patients. You knew the nurses to stay away from, and the kitchen worker who would sneak you an extra cookie.

And you knew Dean Winchester. He had been here when you arrived, sitting near the window of the library, an old tattered book clutched in his hands. He was handsome, with his light brown hair and eyes the color of grass. The white t-shirt and blue pajama pants did nothing to disguise his sleek physique.

Nobody would tell you much about him, just that he had been in the ward for the past ten years, his hands badly burnt, his mental state extremely fragile. You had been warned to stay away from him, to leave him in peace. But time passed, and you couldn't help but wonder about the man who seemed so sad and alone in the corner of the library.

You still remembered the day you had been brave enough to go up to him. The day that had changed your life forever.

Almost two months after you had been placed in the Asylum, you finally gathered up the courage to speak to him. Ignoring the voices in your head reminding you how stupid you were, how much he would hate you, you sat down in the chair across from him. Noticing for the first time the freckles covering his nose, the scars that went all the way to his elbows. His eyes wide, he stared your way, his mouth shaking slightly.

"I'm Y/N," you spoke, your voice shaky and breathless. "I noticed that not many people come talk to you."

"They stay away," he mumbled, his voice deep and smooth. "The stories scare them away."

"What stories?"

"The stories of my life," he answered, pulling the tattered leather book closer in his lap. You could barely see it, but the corners were burnt, the once cream colored paper a crisp black.

"I'd like to hear them," you said, surprising both of you.

"Why? You're just another crazy person in this place!" He exclaimed, his entire body going tense. "You're just like the rest of them! You'll listen, you'll laugh, and you'll think I'm the craziest one of all! But it's not true!"

"I won't think that," you started to argue, even though the voices in your head argued with you. They were louder than normal today, full of malicious thoughts. It was your fault, your medication laying hidden underneath your bed. But you hated how foggy it made your brain feel.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" He whispered, immediately calming down.

"I truthfully don't know," you admitted. "Why? Do you?"

"They're real!" He yelled, drawing the attention of the attendant at the far end of the hall. "They are real, and my brother and I used to hunt them!"

"Mr. Winchester, I think it's time for your afternoon nap," the attendant spoke, reaching down and helping Dean to his feet. He towered over you, at least six feet tall. Staring down at you for a moment, you were amazed at how clear his eyes were. He held himself tall, his shoulders straight, and for a moment you forgot you were in an Asylum across from him.

"We can finish this tomorrow," you suggested. "Because I'd really like to hear more."

Nodding quickly, Dean let the attendant guide him down the hallway and out of your sight. As quickly as they were gone, another person appeared, taking the seat Dean had vacated. He was in his fifties, his salt and pepper hair receding. Glasses were perched on his nose, as he crossed his arms across his brightly colored sweater vest. "I see you met Mr. Winchester."